The Clerk, thus rudely shaken from his meditations, tells the story of Patient Griselda, which he had “learned at Padua, of a worthy clerk ... Francis Petrarch, the laureate poet.” The good Clerk softens down much of that which most shocks the modern mind in this truly medieval conception of wifely obedience; and, as a confirmed bachelor, he adds an ironical postscript which is as clever as anything Chaucer ever wrote.[163] We must revere the heroine, but despair of finding her peer—
| Griseld’ is dead, and eke her patience, And both at once burièd in Itayle. |
So begins this satirical ballad, and goes on to bid the wife of the present day to enjoy herself at her husband’s expense—
| Be aye of cheer as light as leaf on lind, | [lime-tree |
| And let him care and weep, and wring and wail! |
The last line rouses a sad echo in one heart at least, for the Merchant had been wedded but two months—
| ‘Weeping and wailing, care and other sorrow, I know enough, on even and a-morrow’ Quoth the Merchant, ‘and so do other more That wedded be ...’ |
His tale turns accordingly on the misadventures of an old knight who had been foolish enough to marry a girl in her teens. Upon this the Host congratulates himself that his wife, with all her shrewishness and other vices more, is “as true as any steel.” Here ends the third day; the travellers probably slept at the Pilgrim’s House at Ospringe, parts of which stand still as Chaucer saw it.
Next morning the Squire is first called upon to
| ... say somewhat of love; for certes ye Do ken thereon as much as any man. |
He modestly disclaims the compliment, and tells (or rather leaves half told) the story of Cambuscan, with the magic ring and mirror and horse of brass. Chaucer had evidently intended to finish the story; for the Franklin is loud in praise of the young man’s eloquence, and sighs to mark the contrast with his own son, who, in spite of constant paternal “snybbings,” haunts dice and low company, and shows no ambition to learn of “gentillesse.” “Straw for your ‘gentillessë,’ quoth our Host,” and forthwith demands a tale from the Franklin, who, with many apologies for his want of rhetoric, tells admirably a Breton legend of chivalry and magic.